by Tami Hoag
ignorance is not innocence but SIN
i had a little sorrow, born of a little SIN
Blind and naked ignorance . . . blind
and naked ignorance . . .
Mind games. Mitch had said Olie didn't seem the type for mind games. Olie had been lying in his own blood when the call had come to Mitch's house.
Blind and naked ignorance
She had looked up the quotation in Bartlett's. It was from Tennyson's Idylls of the King. Blind and naked ignorance delivers brawling judgments unashamed.
Someone's way of telling them they had the wrong man? Or was it Olie's partner, unaware that at the very moment he called to torment them his cohort was slitting his wrists with the shards of his porcelain eye?
The theories swirled through her mind, making her head ache. And in a separate swarm were the fears for what would happen to her career if someone decided to make an issue of her involvement with Mitch. At best, she would lose face with the men she worked with. Worst ranged from losing her field post to ending up as a security guard at a shopping mall someplace. No. Worst would be not being able to close this case, she decided as she looked down at her copy of Josh's photograph.
He smiled up at her, so full of life and enthusiasm and bright-eyed innocence. For just a second she let her guard down and wondered how he was, what he must be thinking, how frightened he must be . . . provided he was still alive. She had to think he was. Believing kept everyone going.
And beneath all the other thoughts was the acute awareness of every passing second.
“We're doing the best we can, Josh,” she whispered. “Hang in there, scout.”
Tucking the photograph back into her folder, she forced her gaze to focus again on the notes she had made. Olie—computers. Olie—audit courses—Harris College. Instructors?
Christopher Priest was head of the department. Maybe he would have an idea what Olie kept locked away inside his machines. Maybe he would have an idea of how to get at it.
She paid her tab and went back out into the deep freeze with her file folder and notebook clutched against her as if they might afford some protection from the wind. The Lumina started grudgingly and the fan belt shrieked like a banshee all the way back to the station.
The only good thing about the extreme cold was that it discouraged the press from hanging around outside the station doors. Having been banned from the hallways of the law enforcement center, they congregated in the main entry to the City Center building or sat in their cars in the parking lot with the motors running. Megan pulled into the slot designated for Agent L. Kozlowski behind the building and ducked in the door before any of the vultures could alight from their perches.
Her message light was blinking when she let herself into her office, but the call was from Dave Larkin, not DePalma. She hoped the silence meant the dirt from the press conference had yet to hit headquarters. She debated the wisdom of beating them to the punch, calling DePalma herself and giving him the laundered version of what had gone on—she and Mitch had been discussing the case; exhausted from the hours they had been putting in, they fell asleep sitting in front of his fireplace; then came the call . . .
Calls. Plural. Blind and naked ignorance. The voice played through her mind as she hung up her coat. Whispery. Low. Eerie. In her mind's eye she saw the message scrawled in blood on the white wall of Olie's cell—NOT ME. What if he were innocent? What if they had wasted all this time chasing down a red herring while the real kidnapper sat back and watched them, laughing?
The what-ifs spun around and around in her head. She needed to put her thoughts back on track methodically, one by one. They had followed their leads. Olie had the record, he had the opportunity. His van matched the witness description. His van had traces of blood in the carpet.
“Larkin,” she murmured.
Snatching up the receiver, she punched in the number and prayed he would be at his desk. He picked up on the sixth ring.
“Larkin.”
“Dave, it's Megan. What have you got for me?”
“Condolences on the passing of your suspect. Man, Irish, talk about bad breaks.”
“Yeah, if it weren't for bad luck, we'd have no luck at all,” she said. “Have you heard anything else from this end?” she fished.
“Like what?”
“Nothing. Never mind. Did you get the reports on the blood?”
“Yeah. I personally went over there and hounded them. I figured I'd get back to you quicker than they would.”
“Thanks. You're a pal, Dave. What'd they find?”
“It wasn't human.”
Megan let out the breath she'd been holding. “God, I don't know if I should be relieved or disappointed.”
“I know. I'm sorry, kiddo. I wish I could give you something to go on, but this blood ain't it. It probably came from some poor Bambi and it was probably in that rug for years. There were no sporting rifles or shotguns, no guns of any sort found in your guy's house. I'll fax you the report, and the minute I hear anything on the trace evidence, I'll call you.”
“Thanks, Dave. I appreciate it.”
“Don't mention it. And chin up, Irish. When you crack this thing, dinner's on me.”
Megan didn't bother to tell him he would be dining alone. No cops. Never again.
She wondered what would happen to the easy camaraderie she shared with Dave Larkin when Paige Price's story hit the grapevine. She had kept his amorous advances at bay with her rule of not dating cops. He enjoyed kidding around about the subject, but he had always respected her boundaries. How would he feel when he found out she'd been sleeping with Mitch? Would he try to understand or would his ego inflate between them like an air bag?
She cursed herself for the hundredth time. She had compromised so much, and for what? A few hours of intimacy with a man she barely knew.
Other reasons whispered through her mind. Excuses and half-formed wishes. The physical attraction was stronger than anything she had ever known; she hadn't known how to fight it. He had been persistent, persuasive. She had felt a connection with him that awakened within her the desire for things she had never had—closeness, companionship . . . love.
She closed her eyes and shook her head. She was tough enough to break the testosterone barrier and make detective on the Minneapolis force. She was strong enough to fight for her right to this field post with the BCA. She had taken down characters as bad as any cop ever had to face. And all of that was forgotten in a heartbeat for a little scrap of tenderness and the chance to feel that she mattered to a man as a woman.
The fax machine behind her beeped. Megan swung around on her desk chair, expecting to see the lab report on the bloodstains. Instead, the cover sheet was from the DMV regarding the routine trace on Olie's van. Using the manufacturer's vehicle identification number, they had traced the van's life history in the state of Minnesota from first owner to last. According to the report, the title had been transferred in September 1991 to Lonnie O. Swain. The previous recorded change of ownership had occurred in April 1989. The lucky owner: Paul Kirkwood.
Goose bumps rippled down Megan's body. The van Paul Kirkwood hadn't wanted to tell her about was Olie Swain's van.
2:14 p.m.
The council members are really upset here, Mitch. They can't understand how something like this could happen. I mean, how did he get hold of a knife? You don't give those guys table knives with their suppers, do you?”
Mitch stared across his desk at Mayor Don Gillen, trying to manufacture patience from stress and stomach acid. “He didn't have a knife, Don. He didn't have a weapon of any kind. He cracked his glass eye and slit his wrists with the pieces, and if you can find me anyone on the town council who could have foreseen that happening, I will gladly pin my badge to their chest and retire from law enforcement.”
“Jeez,” Gillen muttered, horrified. His blue eyes blinked behind his gold retro spectacles. In addition to his position as mayor, he held an administrative position with the Deer Lake Communi
ty Schools. Pushing fifty, he still tended to dress like a yuppie on the cutting edge of fashion, flashy ties and suspenders being his trademarks. “Jeez, Mitch, that's ghoulish.”
Mitch spread his hands. “I'd rather you didn't tell anyone but the council members.”
“Yeah, sure.” Gillen shook his head as he rose from the visitor's chair. “So, you think it's nearly over?” he asked hopefully. “That Olie did it and killed himself because he felt guilty or couldn't face going back to prison?”
“Honestly, I don't know, Don,” Mitch said, rising. “I just don't know.”
Gillen started to say something, but cut himself off as a sharp knock sounded against the door. Megan stuck her head in the office without waiting for an invitation.
“Excuse me, Chief,” she said, glancing quickly past the mayor. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but I have something here that's extremely urgent. I need to speak with you immediately.”
She let herself in, a tube of fax paper clutched in one hand, her face taut and pale except for the brightness in her eyes. Mitch's instincts came up like radar. She had something concrete. He could feel it.
“Yes, come in, Agent O'Malley,” he said, moving out from behind his desk. “You've met our mayor, Don Gillen?”
Megan offered the mayor a cursory nod, too aware of the cautious look Gillen passed from her to Mitch. The word about the two of them was apparently out around town, but at the moment she didn't give a damn.
“Please keep me up to date, Mitch,” Gillen said. “I'll do what I can with the council.”
“Thanks, Don.”
Gillen slipped out, pulling the door shut behind him. Megan waited a full ten seconds, her heart pounding in her chest, her breath coming as hard as if she had sprinted down the hall from her office. Mitch stood in front of his desk with his hands on his hips, his expression inscrutable, careful.
“Last Friday I requested a report from the DMV on the van Paul Kirkwood used to own—the one that conveniently slipped his mind,” she began. “Their computers were down. They didn't get back to me; turns out they lost my request. In the meantime, we requested a check on Olie Swain's van—the results of which I am holding in my hand. Three guesses as to where he got it.”
“Not Paul,” Mitch said, nerves coiling like snakes in his belly.
Megan handed him the fax as if presenting him with a diploma. “Give the man a cigar. Nailed it in one.”
Mitch uncurled the paper and stared at it. “I can't believe he wouldn't remember selling his van to Olie.”
“There are a number of things I find difficult to believe about Kirkwood. He's at the volunteer center. I called and asked him to come over for a little chat. I thought you might like to be present.”
Paul sold his van to Olie, tried to conceal that fact even before Olie was officially considered a suspect. The implications were too ugly. Mitch didn't want to even consider it, let alone broach the subject with Paul. But he held the proof in his hand, as damning as a smoking gun.
“I think it would be better if I spoke with him,” he muttered.
“You thought that last week,” Megan said tightly. “I don't remember it happening.”
His head snapped up and he stared at her, his eyes as hard and bright as amber beneath the ledge of his brows. “Other things took precedence. Are you suggesting I deliberately avoided talking to him?”
“I'm not suggesting anything,” she said, poker-faced. “All I'm saying is: It didn't happen. Now I've called him over here and I fully intend to make sure the questions get asked.”
The silence stretched between them as they stood there, squaring off, combatants in a turf war. Mitch felt as if she had taken her toe and drawn a line on the carpet between them. And he felt a vague sense of loss, whether it was smart or not.
He stepped across the line, knowing Megan never would. Neither would she back away. She held her ground defiantly, raising her chin, her gaze steady on his.
“Megan,” he said, lifting a hand to brush his knuckles against her cheek.
She turned her face away. “Don't make this any harder than it has to be, Mitch,” she murmured. “Please.”
“We don't have to be enemies.”
“We're not,” Megan insisted. She forced herself to take a step sideways. His tenderness was always her undoing. That had to stop if she was to salvage anything from this situation.
“Look,” she said on a sigh. “I'm feeling cornered and put upon. I'm not blaming you for what happened. I'm just not being a good sport, that's all.”
“I'll talk to DePalma if you want, tell him nothing happened. It's none of their damn business, anyway.”
She smiled sadly. “Thanks, but it won't make any difference. He isn't going to be interested in what did or didn't happen between us if they've decided I've become a public relations problem. If that happens, they'll call me in to headquarters and I'll be relieved of my field post, the official reason being I'm not making progress on the case, even though everyone will understand it was my lack of circumspection.”
“But you're a hell of a cop,” Mitch said, handing her the DMV fax. “Circumspection never sent a crook to jail.”
Megan shrugged, trying not to let his compliment mean too much. “Swap you,” she said, handing him the second tube of thermal paper.
“What's this?”
“The blood analysis from the van. It's not human. We struck out.”
“Thank God . . . I guess.”
“Yeah.”
Natalie buzzed through on the intercom. “Chief, Paul Kirkwood is here to see you.”
Megan arched a brow. “He must have misunderstood my request,” she said sardonically.
Mitch went around behind his desk and punched the button. “Send him in, Natalie.”
Paul stormed into the office, ready to go off on a diatribe about “that BCA bitch,” but he stopped dead in his tracks as his gaze landed on Megan O'Malley. She stood beside Mitch Holt's desk with her arms crossed over her chest. The look she wore was one he recognized from his childhood back in the old St. Paul neighborhood—a touch of defiance, a hint of temper, a hefty dose of plain old toughness. Had they been kids, she might have been telling him she could kick his butt all the way down the block.
He drew himself up and passed his gaze on to Holt, who sat behind his desk with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his elbows on the blotter, relaxed, a little rumpled.
“I thought you were alone,” Paul said.
“Anything you have to say about the case, you can say in front of Agent O'Malley,” Mitch said. “Take off your coat and have a seat, Paul.”
Ignoring the offer, Paul began to pace along the front of the desk. “Yes, I hear the two of you are like this.” He held up crossed fingers. “It's nice to know something is being accomplished with all your overtime.”
“I think you have some more important things to think about here besides idle gossip, Mr. Kirkwood,” Megan said pointedly. “Your failing memory, for instance.”
“My what?”
“Paul, have a seat,” Mitch suggested again, the buddy, the pal. “We need to clear up a little something about that van you used to have.”
“That again?” He flopped his arms against the loose sides of his black wool topcoat. “I don't believe this. You people manage to kill the one suspect we had—”
“Olie killed himself,” Mitch corrected him calmly.
“Or we'd be able to ask him these questions,” Megan added.
Paul came to an abrupt halt and stared at her. He looked a little thinner—his nose seemed sharper, his eyes set deeper—but instead of looking haggard, he seemed energized, as if he were drawing on the tension of the situation for adrenaline. She couldn't help but think of Hannah, who was looking more like a death camp prisoner every day.
“Just what is that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“Paul, why didn't you tell us you sold that van to Olie Swain?” Mitch asked in a tone that was almost matter-of-fact.
I
ncredulous, Paul jerked around to stare at him. “I didn't! I said I don't remember who bought it, but it wasn't him. Christ, I think I'd remember if I sold it to him.”
“Funny,” Megan muttered, “that's just what I said—‘You think he'd remember selling it to Olie'—”
“I didn't!”
Mitch held the fax up and uncurled it like a scroll. “That's not what the DMV says, Paul.”
“I don't give a shit what the DMV says! I did not sell that van to Olie Swain!” Unable to restrain his agitation, he resumed his pacing. “And what would it matter if I had? That was what—four or five years ago—”
“September 1991,” Megan supplied helpfully.
“Of course it wouldn't matter,” Mitch said. “What matters is that it appears you lied to us about it, Paul. That matters a lot.”
Paul slammed his fists down on the desktop, fury forcing a vein to bulge out in his neck. “I did not lie to you! How dare you accuse me! My son is still missing—”
“And we're examining every lead, every single scrap of anything remotely resembling evidence, Paul,” Mitch said quietly. “We're doing our jobs.”
“And what were you doing last night when your only suspect was slitting his wrists?” Paul snapped, his face red and twisted.
Mitch rose slowly, his expression stony. He came around the desk, clamped a hand on Paul's shoulder, and assisted him into the visitor's chair. “Have a seat, Paul.”
He leaned back against the desk then, half sitting, the pose deceptively casual. “Let's get a few things straight here, Paul. First of all, we're doing everything we can do to get Josh back. No one is exempt from scrutiny. Do you understand what I'm saying here, Paul? No one. That's the rule. That's the way these investigations are done. Absolutely no stone is left unturned. If that hurts your feelings, I'm sorry, but you have to understand that everything we do, we do for Josh.”
“We're not saying you're a suspect, Mr. Kirkwood,” Megan interjected. “We ran a routine trace on Olie Swain's vehicle. Believe me when I say I was not expecting to see your name as the last owner listed before Olie.”